Eva Ibbotson

But now the stage cleared, the slow, sweet strains of the solo violin rose from the orchestra—and there began the great pas de deux of love and plighted troth that for many people is Swan Lake.

Simonova had willed herself into youth. As Maximov—no meat porter now, but a manly and noble Prince—raised her from the ground, she pirouetted slowly beneath his arm… leaned against him in arabesque penchée… developpéd forward to throw herself back with total trust against his chest. He lifted her high above his head, put her down again to revolve slowly en pointe, her free foot fluttering in little battements. When he held her it was by the wrists, leaving her hands free for their poignant, wing-like draping.

Thunderous applause greeted the end of the adage and the swans returned. To Rom it seemed that his little brown-haired swan was feeling distinctly better and he might have felt free once more to pursue “the beauty” had he not seen at that moment a new and real danger that threatened her. A single feather had come loose from the circlet round her head and, still held at its base, trembled disconcertingly over one of her eyes.

The unfairness of this shocked Rom. She had begun to conquer her fear; she was dancing beautifully—and now this! Following her as she hopped and circled about the stage, he saw how manfully she attempted to avert disaster. Again and again her lower lip came out as she tried to mow away the offending feather, but without success.

The music was increasing in speed; the evil sorcerer, Rothbart, was making himself felt and Siegfried was hurtling about between the swans, seeking his Queen… He found her and now as dawn broke, they danced their farewell while the swans stood sadly by, their arms crossed over their breasts.

Not much longer to go, Rom said to her silently. Hang on. But as she stood there, a gust of air from the passing soloists completed the fell deed; the feather dislodged itself, fluttered upward, descended again… and settled on her small and serious nose.

At which point, most understandably, she sneezed.

Rom might allow himself to enjoy his box alone during the performance, detesting the whispers and chatter that accompanied so much theater-going, but in the interval he did his social duty and, making his way to the refreshment lounge, was soon the center of a group of friends—being stared at through lorgnettes by ladies who thrived on gossip about his affairs. Mrs. Lehmann, permanently chagrined since he had made it clear that her obese and insufferable daughter was not destined to become mistress of Follina, nevertheless came up to tell him that he had done well to bring the Dubrov Company to Manaus. The Curtis twins, their hair up for the first time, edged closer to the exotic Mr. Verney with whom, since he had procured lemonade for them at the Consulate fete, they were officially in love and were reproved by their tight-lipped Mama.

“I should have thought you would know better than to make eyes at a man who all but murdered a fellow countryman!”

“He didn’t murder Mr. Carruthers,” said Mary. “He just threw him in the river.”

“Mr. Carruthers had been ill-treating his Indians horribly,” said Alice. “He tied them to ant-heaps and—”

“That’s quite enough,” hissed Mrs. Curtis, dragging her daughters past the group surrounding Verney. No doubt they would all be going on to the party at Follina on the following day, breaking the Sabbath. An orgy it would be, with every kind of carry-on. She herself would not dream of setting foot in the place, even if he should once deign to invite her! Everyone knew about his morals: opera singers and actresses! Even now he had probably picked out some girl on the stage who would stay behind when the others left and turn up next morning in the Amethyst with bags under her eyes and a pocket full of jewels. Disgusting, it was—absolutely disgusting!

“What did you think of the little blonde… you know, the fourth from the end?” asked de Silva, speaking hurriedly for his wife would return at any moment from the ladies’ cloakroom.

“Charming,” said Rom, smiling at his friend. “Though I think we should reserve judgment until tomorrow.”

“Yes,” de Silva sighed. What must it be like to know that any girl you wanted could be had for the asking? What was it about Rom? Other men were almost as wealthy, though few matched him for sheer nerve. Was it that corsair Took of his, or the stories of his physical endurance—those mad journeys alone in the Firefly? Or just that he didn’t really care one way or another?

Count Sternov arrived, bear-like and entranced, and the conversation changed to Russian.

“She is incomparable, Simonova!” said the Count. “Incomparable! Sofka thinks her interpretation is finer than Kchessinskaya’s, don’t you, coucoushka?”